


(We Go Together) Like Ion Storms and Transporter Malfunctions

by nix_this



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Damn Scotty's Hot, Event 2, M/M, Origin Story, Smut, Team Tartan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nix_this/pseuds/nix_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He's Montgomery Scott: pioneer of transwarp beaming and the first man to ride his captain like a toboggan down the side of a crater.</i><br/>Another day, another ice planet. Right, Scotty?</p>
            </blockquote>





	(We Go Together) Like Ion Storms and Transporter Malfunctions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ship Olympics Event 2. Prompt: Origin Story. (Winner of the prestigious Best Technical (Journal) Merit award!)
> 
> Much love to Elfsausage for the word war, and Angelbaby1 for the squee. Between them and janice_lester (the best beta in the universe!), I managed to finish a fic for a deadline. *AWE* (that's like... two. Ever. XD)

There HAD to be better ways to spend an afternoon than shoveling a shuttlecraft out of a snow drift. Just off the top of his head, Scotty can name ten. Granted, most of them begin and end with a dram of whisky and the sanctity of the _Enterprise_ 's engine room, but still—there's a limit to what a man can be expected to take, even in the name of service. He'd figured after Archer's snit and his subsequent exile that he'd seen enough bloody ice planets to last him the rest of his life. When he'd finally gotten hold of a towel and let the sonics blast away the few lingering bits of Delta Vega, he'd sworn up and down that never again would he freeze his bollocks off on some remote blizzardy rock.

Aye, and he'd meant it too.

Funny how Jim Kirk has a way of making him forget all sorts of reasonable things.

And it's not just because he fulfilled Scotty's dream by oh-so-casually offering him berth on the _Enterprise_ , though that one act, dismissed as it was with a shrug and a level: "I want the best, and you're it" went above and beyond earning his loyalty. Or even the little smirk Jim gives as he's signing off on some of Scotty's more, uh, creatively padded maintenance requests—like he knows _exactly_ what Scotty has in mind for the aerogels and pergium and the extra dilithium—though Scotty admits to a partiality for that knowing smile.

Nay, when he sees Jim Kirk, he sees kin. He sees a man who knows the value of freedom and can stare into the vastness of space and see the possibilities looming larger than the dangers. He sees a man who recognizes the value of the things that bring him to the edge of the unknown and keep him from getting lost to it. He sees a man willing to push and dare the rest of them to keep up.

And, he's not one to lie, it's not like the lad's hard on the eyes, either. So Jim can be staring into the void, and Scotty can be staring at Jim, and together, with the rest of the crew of unhinged geniuses and the best damn ship in the fleet, they've survived ion storms, transporter malfunctions, first contacts gone awry and more than one skirmish with scads of peevish Klingons.

All in all, his first estimation of the _Enterprise_ stands: it's exciting.

Even if he can't feel his arse anymore.

Crunching snow alerts him to Jim's return, and he looks over his shoulder to confirm. The captain is a sorry sight, bruised and shivering even under the weight of his Starfleet winter issue parka. Scotty scoffs, "Pull your hood up, you daft man. I'm freezin' just lookin' at ya."

Jim startles and smiles wryly. "I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to talk to me like that, Scotty my man" he says, though he obeys the command quickly enough. The heavy fabric fits snug over his head, intensifying the blue of his eyes so that they shock across the scant few feet between them.

Scotty laughs to cover his interest, which is a wee bit more than just concern. "If it's bootlickin' you're after, _sir_ ," he says, "You've picked the wrong man for Chief Engineer. Now get your pretty arse in gear and give us a hand with this."

"Aye-aye, Commander. At your service." Jim salutes and retrieves the spare shovel, moving over to where the starboard landing pad is buried.

There's a lot Scotty could do with the sound of Jim grunting as he bails snow over his shoulder, if he were in his bunk back at the _Enterprise_. What reaches his ears over the wind'll carry him through the next lull between missions handily enough.

"Any luck with the communicator?" Scotty asks after he's made a fair decent progress in his own excavation. He figures no, since Jim hadn't returned crowing with victory and assurances, but it's always good to double check. He wanders over starboard to where Jim's still chipping away solidly at the ice and snow.

The storm that knocked out their navigation system is gaining power, they've not long left to work in the mess if it keeps up.

"Nothing yet," Jim answers, pausing his labours to wipe some of the blowing snow from his eyes. "I have a feeling we'll be spending the night in the _Asimov_. Hopefully the weather clears up enough to signal the _Enterprise_ by morning."

"Aye," Scotty agrees. He stares over the horizon a moment, taking in the endless expanse of white. Nothing but ice, ice and more ice, as far as the eye can see. He can't fathom what else Starfleet expects them to find here. Perhaps some exotic new breed of ice?

He scuffs the ground with the toe of his boot. It appears to be the standard grade, if a little rockier. Jim huffs a laugh and Scotty looks up to see him leaning on his shovel, watching the investigations with a grin.

"Well," Scotty says, more to cover his blush than to report. "The generators are still well enough, so there'll be some heat in her. And the hull's not breached, though there's some damage." He winces slightly as he looks back at the crumpled nose. She's not like to be spaceworthy, though he won't know for sure until they dig her out. "I'll check her over again when we get in, but we'll likely be needin' a tow."

"Does that mean I can stop shoveling, then?"

"Nah," Scotty says with a cheeky grin. "Since it's your fault we're stuck down here, it's only fair that you bear the brunt of gettin' us out."

"And why, exactly, are we shoveling?"

"I need to see the full damage, don't I?"

"Yeah, but the phasers—"

"Have a limited charge, and you know it. You'll be sorry if we waste it because you're feelin' lazy and some fierce ice beastie attacks, now won't you?"

Jim mutters something under his breath, no doubt casting aspersions on Scotty's fine character. He lets the lad bluster and takes a step back to his side of the shuttle.

He should've expected the snow ball that explodes in his face, but Jim's quick and right sneaky when he means to be. He shakes himself off and tries to stalk menacingly to where Jim's laughing like a loon and bunching up more ammunition. The effect is ruined when he hits a soft patch and sinks knee deep.

Two more loosely packed missiles find their target before Scotty's able to work himself free. Melting snow trickles down his neck and onto his chest through the gap in his collar. He shivers and glares even as he stoops to pick up his own handful of snow. He fancies he'll rub Jim's face in it.

"Run, laddie. So help me you'll be regretting that," he mock growls, deliberately thickening his burr to sound more like his Da in a temper. Angus Gilroy Scott was a fearsome man in his fury, indeed.

Jim's eyes widen, appreciating the act and he actually hesitates a second before he launches the snowball he's already holding and takes off running. "You'll have to catch me first, old man!"

"The older the Scotsman, the worse the vengeance! We're a bloodthirsty lot, you ignorant pup!"

"So you're saying I should be terrified then?" Jim asks, laughing. "Prove it!" Jim dashes around the port side of the poor, lodged shuttle to seek cover. The wind picks up as Scotty gives chase, crystallizing the drops of water he's yet to wipe free. The chill adds to his exhilaration, encouraging his legs to pump harder and eat up the ground.

He rounds the tail of the shuttle and has to bob and weave as Jim hurls a barrage of snowballs at him. Scotty's quick enough on his feet to dodge the worst of it, but he can feel a few of the projectiles sneak past his defense and hit his parka. Jim's aim is uncanny, every missile that connects hits a vital area. Were this phaser fire, Scotty would be down half a dozen times over.

He advances, lobbing packed snow whenever Jim's head is in view. He hears a muttered oath and smiles. Dead on target.

Preparing to get fancy and launch himself over the (rather impressive) pile of snow he himself had made in his efforts to excavate the _Asimov_ —which Jim, the sneaky git, has drafted for a shield wall—he's near knocked off his feet from the sudden tremor rippling through the ground.

Scotty staggers and braces himself on the shuttle. Jim's nowhere to be seen.

"Jim, lad?" he calls out. "Are you okay?"

Another tremor, this time backed with an ill-boding groan. Scotty's eyes widen. He knows that sound, aye. From Delta Vega and his years of ice fishing on holiday with his Da.

"Jim!" he yells out. "You've got to be still! We've landed over a lake, the ice will crack if we strain it!"

Still nothing. Scotty's heart pinches in his chest. He steps away from the shuttle and hears another low groan from the ice beneath his feet. He stops in place.

"Jim," he calls again. "Please lad, sing out if you can hear me?"

He waits, straining his ears to pick up even the tiniest ghost of a whimper. Nothing. Slowly, too slowly for the urgency racing through his veins, he crouches then lays himself flat on his belly. He squirms and fidgets his way across the ice, seeing now the tiny stress cracks in the ground they'd missed when they first evacuated the shuttle. He curses himself silently, he should've known better. He does know better.

Jim's fancy navigating and the shields had saved their lives and their bones, but they'd been at speed when she crashed.

The _Asimov_ had been as a bullet through the iceshield, not so much as to break through on impact, but the heat they'd accumulated in their plummet had to go somewhere. The tremors are signs of the radial stress fighting its way free. The heat and shock had melted enough of the permafrost that it was reaching the surface instead of dispersing harmlessly throughout.

Blast, but when they got back to the _Enterprise_ , Scotty'd be writing himself up for gross negligence. Was he a seasoned engineer or a stark apprentice? By damn, he should've known.

And Jim...

He's at the edge of the hole he'd dug, a decent two-foot shallow pit. He peers over and sees Jim, curled on his side like a babe in a basket. There's no blood, thank the Lord, though the lad is too-still and too-pale. There's a vivid bruise on his cheek, like as not he'd been thrown against the landing strut when the ground shook. He's breathing, tiny puffs of mist escaping his parted lips, white like his face, but he's _alive_.

The knot of terror in Scotty's gut loosens as that realization parses. The situation is dire, but not hopeless.

There's a crack in the ice near Jim's shoulder, narrow but deep. It'll be a task to move the lad without sinking themselves and their shuttle into whatever lies beneath.

He cannot lift him, evenly, and not jar him. He'll have to be dragged out of the pit. Scotty can practically hear Doctor McCoy hissing in his ear that he could kill Jim, or paralyze him, if he moves him. Aye, and he knows the doctor knows that while moving Jim _could_ kill him, leaving him out in the cold certainly _will_.

Scotty inches back to the shuttle as quickly as he can on his belly. A gurney and some sort of pull is what's needed, something to brace Jim with. He pats his hip absently, feeling for his phaser and communicator, both of which are present.

Cautiously moving about the shuttle, he's leery of the way she's canted forward. Too much weight could shift her now that they've freed her legs and he can't risk it. Can't risk Jim. He's got a decision to make once he's got Jim clear of the ice, and he can't not envy the captain his blissful ignorance as he weighs hazarding the night in the shuttle, where there will be heat, or out in the elements where they'll have to find shelter.

He worries his lips between his teeth where he stands. Neither option is good. Even if he can seal the shuttle completely, if she goes down into deep water she's not likely to survive the pressure in her damaged state. Their next scheduled check-in isn't for hours yet, so the _Enterprise_ won't even be looking to start a search until then. If there's no cover to be found, and soon, he may as well shoot them both now and spare them dying of exposure.

Another tremor and a loud snap decide the issue for him. He grabs the rations and emergency kit and stuffs them both into a satchel and slings it across his chest. Two compression packed sleeping bags get tied tightly on either side. He retrieves the chute from the floor compartment behind the cockpit and takes the panel with him.

He twitches the sack behind him and slides the panel between the strap and his back. It's not comfortable by any stretch but it'll do. He belly-crawls back to Jim, forcing himself to keep a steady, slow pace despite his concern. From his vantage he sees the fissures have widened somewhat and he doesn't know how much more the ground will take before it gives. The wind is still howling over him, blowing snow and cold, setting the shuttle to creaking ominously.

He reaches the hole where Jim lies wounded and lowers himself carefully to crouch beside his captain.

He's cold, but still breathing. He hasn't moved, and Scotty doesn't know enough medicine to judge if that's a good sign, or no. He errs on the side of optimism and rolls Jim slowly into a sleeping bag and onto the panel. He moans at the gentle treatment and Scotty takes heart. Moaning is good.

A few quick slashes with his knife deconstructs the chute into lashes and a makeshift harness. His hands are stiff but Scotty tests the knots thoroughly. They'll hold. He'd bet his life on it. And Jim's.

"Oh, aye," he mutters as he works, "enlist in Starfleet, Monty. See the Universe, Monty. Or at least all the bloody inhospitable ice planets we can chart. Learn how to be a pack dog, Monty." It's almost funny. If Jim were conscious he'd be laughing his arse off and telling him to mush.

There's barely enough room for him to stand next to the bundled and trussed starship captain, let alone charge over snowfields. The pit is shallow, but the walls are neatly squared and steep. If there's ever been a time where Scotty wishes he took less pride in his work, it's now.

He casts an uneasy glance back at the _Asimov_. He knows it's not possible, but it seems as if she's shifted while he worked.

Right. Best hurry, then.

He reaches for his phaser just as the ground gives another tremble. Next to the epicenter, the cracking is louder, more worrisome. He quickly adjusts his settings to a high stun and aims for the lip of the pit. The steady pulse melts through the ice and snow easily and he traces a side-to-side path, cutting a ramp wide enough to accommodate himself and Captain Cocoon.

A shrieking gust blows over them, buffeting the shuttle and sliding her down, hard. The racket of bending metal and breaking ice is all the warning he needs. Scotty holsters his phaser and bolts for it, hauling Jim behind him on his makeshift sled and struggling to keep his feet under him. The panel catches the uneven ground and yanks him off balance as he runs, losing him precious seconds with every stumble.

He keeps his head low to the wind and pushes through it. The cracking sounds behind them swell like a cacophonous orchestra reaching a crescendo. It rumbles beneath his feet as the pressure builds. It'll open right beneath them, the chunks of ice erupting into unsteady islands if he doesn't get them clear.

He heads for a larger drift, hoping it's thick enough to buffer them from the break up.

The next round of tremors sets his knees buckling as sure as the ice behind them before he can reach it. He hears the splash and grind of the poor _Asimov_ sinking to her watery grave beneath the thunderous roar of heaving ice. Adrenaline-fuelled terror shoots him back to his feet, and he hauls Jim toward the drift.

It's a lucky snag on the harness that lets him avoid plummeting down the cliffside. Throwing his weight sideways, he lands flat on his arse next to Jim's still-sleeping face and gapes at the incline.

"You daft bastard," he curses. "You crashed us onto a bloody _crater_."

Oh, he'd had a merry laugh at Chekov when the wunderkind had first theorized that Jim Kirk had an ability to attract the worst sorts of luck. Lord help him, he's starting to believe it himself.

"A crater," he says again, abstractly hoping the act of saying it aloud might make it untrue, that the ground would level to a smooth plane on the power of his disbelief.

It doesn't.

Shooting an apprehensive glance over his shoulder, he takes in the churning mess of ice and water where their shuttle had once been. He eyes the slope of the crater and does some quick maths.

Aye, it's survivable. The sides taper to relatively gentle 15 degrees about halfway down. There don't seem to be any sharp rocks or other nasty protrusions waiting below, so the odds aren't _that_ bad. He's done more foolhardy things before, he's certain of it.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy-boy," he says as he slips out of his harness. He lays over Jim, absently pleased to find the lad's warmed up some. It's a promising sign. "This is not how I pictured this moment, so's you know. You were a bit more lively, for one, and the only risky things I was considerin' involved some unwise confessions and the possibility of some right awful poetry." He stuffs the bag of supplies between them and ties himself off as best he can with the awkward angle.

He shimmies them to the edge, feeling much like a half-pinned frog attempting escape from one of Spock's labs. "It's a shame you're not awake for this, though," he says as he peers over the edge and gathers his gumption. "I'm thinking you're the type to enjoy it a mite more than I will."

He takes a deep, bracing breath and kicks off.

Mark his words, he thinks as his stomach drops out of him and his eyes tear up in the wind. If they get out of this, never again will he be volunteering for another "routine" ice planet survey. No matter who's doing the asking.

They careen down the craterside, bouncing back and forth like electrons in a valence bond. Scotty screws his eyes shut as they pick up speed. Steering's not an option, so he'd rather not see if certain death is looming.

Not that the blowing snow would allow him the chance to stare death in the face, anyhow.

He wraps himself around Jim like a Scotty-snuggie, shielding his head with a hand and squeezing his legs between his own.

They tumble entwined together, with Jim loose and lax below him and Scotty shifting his weight to keep them from flipping over. It's an age before the slope levels enough for friction to work its magic.

He's panting like he's run the whole distance in a space suit when they finally slide to a stop. He rolls off Jim clumsily and onto his back in the snow, his entire body rubbery and too weak to disengage his arms from the straps just yet. He cranes his neck to peer up at the peak of the crater and the reality of what he's just done smacks him upside the head.

They'll reckon he's mad when he writes home about this, but it should be good for a few pints at the pub on his next leave nonetheless. Maybe even a page of his own in the archives after they file the report.

Montgomery Scott: pioneer of transwarp beaming and the first man to ride his captain like a toboggan down the side of a crater.

Laughter bursts from him like an hydraulic vent releasing. He rolls with it, tangling himself up in literal knots with his flailing.

***

Good cheer at the sheer dumb luck of their survival proves to be a fleeting thing. Dark is almost upon them, the blasted storm still hasn't let up and Jim's started tossing fitfully in his nest. Scotty's half tempted to break into the medkit and use the Kayolane to knock the lad senseless if he causes him to stumble but one more time.

He's so bloody tired he almost misses the cave entirely.

But it's not yet his time to be martyred and anointed as the Patron Saint of Lost and Sober Engineers—a sorry lot, indeed—and he does spy the deeper darkness before he succumbs to the urge to commit any court-martialable offenses against his captain's person.

"Ach, Jim," he breathes out on a sigh of relief. "We're saved."

No sooner do the words escape his lips when he hears the growling under the shrieking wind. He spins round in time to see a large green blur with a distressing number of teeth lunging for his throat.

He yelps and drops to knees, fumbling for his phaser as the creature streaks over his head.

"You've got to be bloody kiddin' me!" he yells as he wriggles out of the harness. "I hate bleedin' ice planets!"

His first shot goes wide and the thing's almost on him before he can throw himself clear. He gains his feet and charges at it, screaming like a banshee and missing every shot.

The blasted thing is fast, and though Scotty's fit enough, he's more accustomed to a good brawl than sniping at a moving target. It fair dances around the arcing pulses and gets close enough to nick his arm through his parka with its razor-sharp claws before Scotty can club it away with the butt of his phaser.

"Hold still, you bastard son of a slime devil!" he shouts, unable to get a clear sight on the damnable beast as it bobs and weaves around him.

Either the creature has no understanding of clear Standard, or it's choosing to ignore him. It circles him like prey, too many sets of red eyes staring with hunger, gaping maw salivating at the prospect of a tasty Scot for dinner and a captain for dessert.

It leaps for him without warning, claws extended and teeth snapping like an over-sized, six-legged wolverine. Scotty's barely able to sidestep and his tired feet stumble over a patch of ice. He lands on his arse and throws his arms up to shield his face, bracing for an impact of shredding pain and a bloody death.

The scent of sizzling fur hits his nostrils and it takes a second to realize he's still alive and whole.

Scotty lowers his arms and dumbly takes in the smoking corpse of the beastie. Scotty blinks, twice, before he can look past it. His jaw drops when he sees Jim, half out of his swaddle and propped on an elbow with his phaser still extended. The cocky smirk on his face is the last bloody straw, all of Scotty's terror and worry and exhaustion erupt into a fine boiling rage.

He scrambles to his feet and stalks over to Jim, blustering like his great-uncle Malcolm gone too deep in his cups over Christmas.

"You foolish, irritating, smug little dunderhead," he starts, waving his arms and punching the air with his phaser for emphasis. "You ask me to come along on a routine mission. I just wanted to spend some time with my journals and my engines but NO! Can't have that now, can we?! 'It's just a survey!' you said. 'We don't need security!' you said. 'It'll be fun!' you said. Oh aye, Jim, it's been a bloody fucking riot, hasn't it?!"

Jim's eyes go very wide and very blue against the bruising on his cheek. His mouth works like he's having trouble sorting his words. That suits Scotty just fine. He's not near finished yet.

"You crashed the shuttle onto a God-be-damned CRATER, you wee numpty! And then-" Scotty stops mid-rant and sucks in a deep lungful of air.

Jim sputters in the pause, "But I--!"

"I'm not fucking well done yet, am I?!" Scotty bellows. "You go and get yourself hurt because we're too damned busy horsing around to notice that the ice is gonna break! You near drove me mad with worry, you nipply wee dozy!"

He paces around Jim, cussing and flailing the like to put even his cousin Gilly to shame after she'd discovered her lad had been stepping out on her in high school, shushing Jim with more of the same when he tries to interject.

"I dragged your sorry arse for hours! Hours! Through the blowin' snow and freezin' wind, worryin' all the while that you were gonna cock up and die! And now you're all smug and smilin' like I didn't near just get my face chewed off by a rampagin' beastie!" Scotty marches over to the said felled beast and kicks it savagely, rolling it to its side so he can see the fangs once more which only serves to set him off again.

Jim gives up on trying to get a word in after the first 'fanny-faced cuddie' and simply stares, mouth agape, as Scotty works himself into a fine frothing frenzy.

"We lost a shuttle! An entire shuttle! And she was my favourite, too!" Aye, the poor _Asimov_. It's enough to bring a man to tears by itself, let alone the rest of this godawful day.

He runs out of steam, and curses, eventually. Midway through the third round of calling Jim every variation of gomeril and puddock he can think of, between bursts of "CRATER" and "ICE PLANETS" and "BEASTIE", Scotty suddenly sags and stops.

They stare at each other as the last echoes of 'dolt' fade into the wind.

"Well," Jim says finally, shuffling into a proper sit. He must've been working himself free of the ties and the sleeping bag whilst Scotty was otherwise engaged waxing eloquent on the hues and variations of Jim's unique brand of idiocy. "That was... impressive."

Scotty cringes. He's got a long fuse, aye, but it's connected to a full keg. Which has just exploded all over Jim. "I'm sorry," he says sheepishly, "I didn't mean..."

Jim gives a half-smile and cocks his head to the cave. "How about you give me a hand up and we continue this discussion inside?"

Scotty smacks his forehead and hastens over to help. His ego's taken a pounding today, between not noticing the immediate peril of the initial crash and needing to be saved by a wounded man, then going so far as to lose his temper at the aforementioned wounded man and keep them lingering in the cold with shelter only a scant few paces away while he vented his spleen.

It'll be a wonder if he doesn't get banished back to Delta Vega for this. He can practically hear old Archer crowing in his head.

***

By unspoken accord, neither of them natter while Scotty bustles about the smallish cavern, warming rocks with their phasers and spreading their combined sleeping bags out nearest to the largest boulder. They've had a bit of luck, it would seem, as the porous stones absorb the heat and retain it better than he'd hoped. He figures he'll only need to refresh the charge every hour or so to keep them snug, which should be gentle enough use to last their phasers' charge til help arrives. Barring, of course, the possibility that the _Enterprise_ will decide a scenic tour through the neighbouring sectors is in order before attempting rescue. He doesn't think that's likely, though. Commander Spock has a fondness for them both. Usually.

Jim's still a tad unsteady, half-crouched, half-leaning against a wall as if he doesn't trust his legs to carry him. The light is fading fast but, even in the diffused glow given off by the rocks, Scotty can see him shivering.

"Come on, then," Scotty says, as he gathers their rations and the med kit. He sits on the nearest sleeping bag and pats the empty space beside him. "Let's get you fed and looked after."

Jim's teeth flash briefly. "I'll settle for warm." He picks slow progress over the uneven ground and settles next to Scotty with a gingerness more befitting an old man.

"We'll get to that," Scotty assures him. He tosses one of the protein bars onto Jim's lap. "Eat that, now. All of it."

"You're worse than Bones," Jim says, tearing into the foil with his teeth.

Scotty scoffs and fiddles with the field tricorder from the kit. "I"ve my doubts on that, Jim." Indeed, the doctor's medical competence is almost as legendary as his temper. Scotty's got the latter, in spades, as Jim can now vouch, but his expertise lies in mechanics and metals, not flesh and bone. "I can't help wishin' he were here though. I've more experience modifyin' these blasted things than I do interpreting them." He waves it over Jim and sees no flashing warnings, though one of the lines—he can only deduce it's the body temperature reading—is registering on the low side of normal.

"Hmm," Jim says thoughtfully around his mouthful of compacted proteins flavoured with chalk dust. "I've never given you permission to use my name before, have I?"

Scotty freezes mid-sweep and swallows thickly. Regret burns in his belly harsher than any whisky he's ever tasted. Even old Aunt Agatha's nasty homebrew can't compare. "No, sir," he says quietly, after a long, heavy silence. "You never did."

"Shit! No, Scotty," Jim leans forward and catches Scotty's hands with his own. "That's not what I meant. At all. Of course you can call me Jim." His voice turns wry as he continues, "it's certainly better than, what was it again? Wankin' wee walloper?" His attempt at a good Scottish burr are laughable—though he has to get some points for trying, there's a certain lilt and flow to good insult, and he's not quite got it yet.

"Aye," Scotty says, thankful the low light disguises the flush he can feel creeping over his face. "Among other things."

Jim laughs, loud and clear. "Stars above, Scotty. I've never heard anybody go off like that before. Even my stepdad couldn't've topped it and I honestly think he believed swearing at me was a competitive sport."

"Well, he wasn't Scottish, was he?"

"Nope. Frank was one-hundred-percent pure American hick." Jim releases his grip on Scotty's hands, a runs a quick hand through his hair. "No, what I meant was, I never _had_ to give you permission, yeah?" His voice softens when he adds: "We've always been comfortable with each other."

Scotty nods carefully. "Aye, I suppose we have at that."

"Great. Now that we both clear on that, can we please, _please_ get out of these freezing fucking clothes and start sharing some body heat?"

"Beggin' your pardon?" Scotty splutters, utterly gobsmacked. He'd been worrying about how to approach the subject delicately, thinking—wrongly, it would appear—that Jim wouldn't be keen to get so close after his little tantrum.

"Look, I'm freezing. You can't be much better off if you were dragging me for hours in _that_ ," he gestures vaguely to the entrance of the cave, indicating the storm still blowing strong outside their stone sanctuary. "So... strip down," Jim says, leaning close enough so that Scotty can get the full effect of his ridiculous eyelash fluttering. "And, hold me?" he fair coos, giving a dramatic full-body shiver. "I'm not sure if you noticed but, baby, it's cold outside."

Scotty's lingering worries dissipate, and he barks a laugh at Jim's antics. If the lad's well enough to flirt, the danger's been passed.

"Fine, fine," he says, still snorting as he clambers to his feet. "If it's a cuddle you're after, you only had to ask."

"Oh, really?" Jim says, archly. "Now isn't that interesting?"

Scotty fumbles the fastenings on his parka and keeps his back to Jim. "Aye," he says gruffly. "You're the sick one, after all."

And blast him if that doesn't set the lad to chuckling. "Oh, Scotty," says Jim fondly, "you have _no_ idea."

While he's relieved to find that he hasn't actually frozen his bobby clean off, Scotty wishes it wasn't making that fact so prominently known just at this moment. Jim's standing just behind him, and he can hear the rustle of clothing being stripped off and discarded. He sets his shoulders and starts peeling off his own gear, determined to match Jim's nonchalance toward the whole affair.

He throws off his parka, red Operations tunic and undershirt following quickly after. The boots take some work, one of the clasps sticking stubbornly, damaged either in the slide down the crater side or in his less-than-heroic battle with the creature. He forces it, and tears the leather and lining in the process. Scotty resigns himself to requisitioning a new pair when they get back to the _Enterprise_. A damn shame, that. A good pair of boots takes an age to break in properly, and he's yet to perfect a machine to manage the task for him.

He hesitates at his trousers, but the chill in the air and Jim's impatient promise that he won't look dispels the shyness enough for him to work them down and step out. Kicking the mess to the side of their bed, Scotty slips into the combined sleeping bags with Jim as quickly as he can, crouching clumsily to conceal his erection should Jim have been lying about peeking.

Which he had been. Of course.

When Scotty works up the nerve to roll over, Jim is leering. "Not bad, old man," he purrs appreciatively.

His cheeks burn hotter and his cock is especially pleased to note Jim's approval.

"I thought you said you wouldna peek?" Bugger and damn, but his burr thickens when he's embarrassed or aroused. He hopes Jim's twigging only to the one, and that knowing smirk of his is more of a default setting than a reaction to the current situation.

"Are you shy, Scotty?" Jim asks lightly. "Trust me, you've got nothing to be ashamed of from where I'm lying."

"Ach, empty words from an empty head." Scotty tries for easy banter and falls a bit short. He's flustered under Jim's attention, and the closeness of all that naked skin and the intimacy of their positions is sending all sorts of foolishness running through his head. "I think 'twill be easier on the both of us if you lay off the teasing for now, laddie."

Jim shuffles closer, his bare legs brushing against Scotty's. He rests a hand on Scotty's hip, curling his fingers over his skin. It's a possessive gesture and Scotty's heart takes to pounding as he looks into Jim's eyes. All the teasing is gone from them, instead he seems intense and determined and as serious as the grave. He leans his head in so that his breath blows lightly over Scotty's lips.

"Who's teasing?" he says, voice gone low and husky.

Scotty nearly groans with frustration. He's got a chance at the very thing he's been wanting for so long he's forgotten how it is to be _without_ yearning. But, and curse his damn fool heart for being so soft, he doesn't want to be just the thing that Jim did on that mission on that damned ice planet. His heart's like to crack in two if he becomes another anecdote shared over ale and laughs for Jim.

"S'not a good idea, Jim," he says regretfully. "Not for me."

"I've seen the way you look at me, Scotty," Jim says, eyes unwavering in their stare. He shifts so that one long thigh brushes against Scotty's cock. "I can feel how much you want me." His hand trails up to splay against Scotty's chest, right over where his heart is beating like a frenzied drummer. "You can have me."

Scotty scoots to the edge of the sleeping bag. He can feel the coolness of the ground against his back. It does nothing to ease the burning in his blood.

"We can't," he insists, perhaps a little wildly, but who could fault him that? There's temptation before him, as much as in any legend, and he's no hero from a tale. There is no implacable will or stores of strength to draw on, just himself. An ordinary man, trying to do the right thing. "You're not well."

Jim follows, crowding him. "You can kiss me better. Warm me up, make me hot. I _want_ you to."

Scotty breathes a curse that comes out as plea. He grips Jim's shoulders. "Aye," he says, pushing him back as gently as he can. "Tonight you do, I believe that. I'm-" He swallows thickly and searches Jim's face, trying to show he's in earnest, perhaps begging for understanding. It's been a trial of a day, and he's not got much left in the way of resistance. He needs Jim to understand. "I'm not like that, Jim. I'm not like you-"

Jim pulls away as if he's been slapped. "I see," he says flatly, face clearing of emotion like a purged databank. "Not like me, the hyper slut. Not like me who'll do anyone and anything and move onto the next."

"That's not what I meant!" He wants to reach out and do something, anything, to wipe away that blank expression on Jim's face. To ease the hurt lingering behind his eyes.

"No, it's fine. I get it." Jim takes a deep breath and smiles. It's a hollow thing and Scotty's not buying it for a second. "I didn't think you were the type to listen to rumours, Scotty. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"What the hell are you on about now?"

"Oh, you know. James T-for-tomcat Kirk. I know what they say about me. Love 'em and leave 'em, right?"

"I never said that!" Scotty protests. "What I meant was-"

"Look, let's just drop it, ok? No harm, no foul. It won't happen-"

"Will you shut your damn fool mouth and listen for a change? I'm trying to tell you-"

"Let me guess, it's not you, it's me?" Bitterness undercuts the mocking tone, old hurts mixing with new.

Scotty can't bloody stand it.

"Oh, bugger it all." He surges forward and rolls. He's not combat trained like Jim is, but he's got surprise on his side and Jim's soon pinned under him. Their gazes lock, Jim's eyes widening with shock. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you, you daft bastard!"

He crushes his mouth to Jim's before he can think about what he's said and what it means. Jim inhales sharply, parts his lips and Scotty dives in. His tongue finds the dusty flavour of emergency rations still lingering, but beneath is Jim's own sweet taste and he licks and sucks desperately, as if it could disappear if he doesn't get it all at once.

Jim groans and twists, tilting back to lure Scotty in deeper, shifting the angle so can. It's open and raw and messy, but Scotty couldn't have designed a better kiss with an entire regiment of Starfleet's top engineers and a contingent of Orion consultants.

They buck and strain against each other, rhythms off and stuttering like a pair of misfiring cylinders, but it's good. The slide of their cocks, and their skin, and their sweat. The slickness of their saliva and the texture of their mingling breaths. It's better than good, it's better than fantasy—it's like tracing a system and finding that one small flaw and making it right.

His hands snake up from Jim's waist to follow the lines of his flanks, digging in the spaces between his ribs with the tips of his fingers and greedily swallowing the resulting whine.

Jim rips his mouth away on a gasp and latches it to the meat of Scotty's shoulder, sucks a bruise into the skin and licks it better before moving on to the next. Scotty grunts and arches into the pressure, eager for more, and harder still. Jim seizes Scotty's arse and pulls them together, pressing and grinding and urging him to keep up with his hips, his hands and his desperate panting breaths.

Scotty's game for it. He rocks back. Noses his way to the line of Jim's throat to leave his own mark, high enough so it can't be hidden with a uniform. Jim's not his captain in this moment, has never really been _just_ his captain, and he needs to prove it to them both.

Their legs tangle and separate and tangle anew, seeking, striving and finally finding the perfect configuration—one of Jim's riding high on Scotty's hip so as to keep him close while his hands grope and caress their way over Scotty's back—Scotty's bracketing Jim's other thigh to maximize their points of contact as they writhe in tandem.

Their lips meet again, familiar now and more savage with it. Scotty bites, Jim keens and they both rush in for more.

Darkness is filling the space, the stones around them losing their precious heat.

Neither of them notice.

It can't last, there's simply no room for such things as stamina on this edge of exhaustion and exhilaration. Jim stiffens first, his arms tightening around Scotty's back convulsively. His choked-off cry vibrates into Scotty where their chests meet and returns back to them in echoes. His hot release coats them both, and Scotty comes, hard, adding to the mess with his own harsh shout.

He shudders through it, and goes limp. Rests his forehead against Jim's as they both fight for balance and breath.

Jim locks his arms when Scotty tries to pull away. "Don't," he says softly. "Not yet."

"Jim?"

"Did you mean it?"

The light is all but gone now, but Scotty can feel Jim's eyes fixed firmly on his face nonetheless.

"Aye," he answers honestly, "I meant it."

Jim loosens his hold enough to ghost a palm over Scotty's cheek. "Then stay."

Scotty's eyebrows lift of their own accord. In all his imaginings, a tender Jim hadn't entered the equation. But there's room enough in his designs to accommodate this new variable, and for whatever else the lad can throw at them.

He stays.

The storm outside finally lets up halfway into the night, when Scotty pries himself out of Jim's full-body embrace. He rises to go about reheating the rocks. They'll have no issues contacting the _Enterprise_ come morning, and it will be nice to return to his lady. Her captain's a soft lump in the midst of the sleeping bags, and he finds he's equally eager to return to him.

He fetches a towel and dampens it with a measure of water from their rations. He wipes them down quickly, ignoring Jim's sleepy complaints.

When he slides back into the warmth, Jim murmurs: "Scotty?"

He cuddles close and whispers back: "Aye, Jim."

Jim gives a happy hum and curls into Scotty's chest.

He's just about to drift off when he hears Jim sigh: "Me too."

Scotty's eyes fly open, if only to assure himself that he's not lighting up the entire world with his sudden grin. The darkness is reassuring—he doesn't think he could cope with being literally aglow with happiness. It'd be a distraction, at the very least.

Some things just go together naturally: Dilithium and warp drives. Ice planets and disaster. Ion storms and transporter malfunctions.

And perhaps, he thinks just before sleep sneaks up to claim him, Jim Kirk and Montgomery Scott can be counted among that number as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, Ship Olympics. Where even Scotty gets some love :D I was on team Spork last year, and it was awesome, but this year, as a loud and proud member of Team Tartan, I am determined to show the world that Scotty is DAMN FINE :D He's so much fun to write, it's like an excuse to get lyrical and overly poetic AND work in as many engineering/science metaphors as possible! How is this fandom not OVERFLOWING with Scotty fic already? He always gives it all he's got (if yannow what I mean ;) ) It's Canon! *hearts*
> 
> Ok, I'm done now XD


End file.
